Myke
by launchpad99
Summary: What did Mycroft say to Jim to make him talk? What were the Holmes boys like as children? Mystery upon mystery unraveled, whether you like it or not. In progress, expect sporadic chapter entries, review if you like.
1. Chapter 1

2011

The room smelled of formaldehyde and men's deodorant. There was no furniture, so he sat on the bare floor, facing the bare wall, completely and utterly motionless. Until I shut the door behind me, I noticed the slightest movement of his neck, an acknowledgement of sorts.

"I was wondering when you'd finally come see me." His voice was quiet and soft. I noted at least three bone fractures in his left arm, as well as a number of bruises along his upper torso. The boys certainly did a number on him, I made sure of that.

"Well, I'm sure you know the old expression. If you want something done-"

"You've got to do it yourself. It's good you've come to realize that the goldfish just get in the way of things."

"What?"

"The goldfish. It's what I like call the..._normal_ people." He accentuated the word "normal" as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. I didn't reply at first, but when I opened my mouth to do so, he interrupted me again.

"You know I'm not going to tell you anything. I certainly didn't say anything to the alcoholic with a stomach ulcer and three separate mistresses."

"Four, actually. You didn't see the left hand." At that, he laughed.

"Oh, I saw plenty of it. Too much, I'd say." He turned to face me. His eyes were so remarkably void. "But you're not him, are you? No, no, you're...the Iceman."

"And what does that make you?" He grinned like a shark would.

"I'm the ape that rubbed two sticks together."

Neither of us said anything for a while, but he suddenly stood up and cracked his neck and exhaled forcefully.

"Alright, if you reeeeeeeeally want me to, I'll talk." Instinctively, I straightened up, but my face stayed the same, I made sure of it. "But, Miss Starling, it's not going to be that easy." He began to walk around the room, stretching his arms. I exhaled with an air of frustration.

"What do you want?" He stopped, facing the wall again, but I could tell he was grinning.

"Tell me about...him. And start from the beginning, take care not to leave anything out. I'll be able to tell if you do."

I sneered.

"Will you?" He turned to face me again.

"I'm not your little brother." The sneer turned into a scowl, and he smiled the sort of smile I'd give to Sherlock when we were younger. The kind of smile I'd give when I knew I was right. I took a deep breath, and frustration bubbled up in the front of my skull.

"Fine."


	2. Chapter 2

2011

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born on the second of December, in 1980. I was seven years old at the time. After the birth, our father brought me in to see Mother and the baby. I protested, but the complaints of a child often fall on deaf ears. Mother was (surprisingly) conscious, holding a bundle in her arms. I hoped I wouldn't have to hold the baby. Our father and mother cooed over him, whilst I pointed out to the nurse how she left her front door unlocked and forgot to take her insulin today.

"Eventually, they called me over to see the baby. He had Father's brow and nose, so I dismissed the likelihood of the child being illegitimate. Mother asked if I would like to hold him, and not seeking to cause any trouble for myself, I conceded. He weighed precisely seven pounds. When he opened his eyes, he began to wail at at least ninety-three decibels. I was repelled, of course. Father gave him back to Mother, and we both went home.

"Sherlock and Mother came home from the hospital three days after Sherlock was born. They had explained to me that since the nursery was still under construction, we would have to share a room many months beforehand, but that did little to quell my prepubescent indignance. Fortunately, he slept for most of the first day. However, he cried for most of the first night. Most inconvenient.

"This sort of thing went on and on for the first year or so, and I'm surprised I escaped with my sanity. He first spoke in June of 1982, his first words were-"

Interrupting me, the door to the room opened, it was the fellow who let me in earlier.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but you said to let you know when fifteen minutes had passed." Inwardly, I was surprised that my internal clock had failed me. It certainly didn't feel at all like a quarter of an hour. Nonetheless, I turned to leave, but I heard him sit down again.

"Come back tomorrow." He said it as if it were a command. I decided not to give him the satisfaction of replying. I left the facility, and was soon driven to afternoon tea at the Diogenes Club. My mobile phone was resting comfortably in my pocket. In a flare of familial sentiment, I considered checking up on Sherlock via John, but decided against it once I realized that John has been cycling through a number of listed responses that Sherlock has giving me.

As I dropped sugar into my cup, I chastised myself for not realizing it sooner. For a fleeting moment, I entertained the inane possibility that maybe Sherlock was right, that I was "losing my touch" as he often said in so many words. As I held the saucer and took a sip, I dismissed the idea as ludicrous, and comforted myself in deducing that the man who prepared the tea trolley was a recovering alcoholic with two newborn children (twins, obviously), and had traveled abroad in his youth. I blinked, then allowed myself the comfort of a small smile to myself.

I thought on my encounter with Moriarty, and my mind began to steel itself. The man (if you could call whatever James Moriarty was a "man") unnerved me. I could see why he and Sherlock fascinated each other so deeply. In a way, they were vitally similar, and that left an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my belly.

The clock on the wall said that it was half past two, and it certainly felt like it. The tea and the phone and the time all suddenly seemed to blend together as boredom overtook me and I eventually dozed off in my armchair.

1985

"Let go, Sherlock, you're going to break it!"

"Mykey, it's my turn!"

The microscope was held in between us, both ends under pressure, and although he was half my size, Sherlock was stronger than he looked for his age. Or perhaps I was inexcusably out of shape, even then. Eventually, Father peeked into the bedroom door and then separated us. He held us at the ends of his arms, but we never broke eye contact.

"Mycroft, the microscope was a gift from Uncle Sidney for you to _share_ with your little brother." I opened my mouth to reply with some thinly veiled insult about his receding hairline, but Sherlock beat me to the punch.

"Father, Mykey agreed on five-minute intervals, and it's been nearly eight!" Father glared at me.

"Is this true, Mycroft?" I kept staring at Sherlock, but eventually nodded.

"Well, I think it's only fair that Sherlock has eight minutes on his next turn." I could feel frustration as if it were a tangible thing, a monstrous lizard crawling on my back, and its name was Sherlock. Eventually, Father left, and I tossed the microscope to Sherlock. He caught it, of course.

"Here, just bloody take it." I could almost see myself pouting, but Sherlock smiled and began to collect a blood sample from our hamster, Sigmund. I sat up in my bed and busied myself by finishing a speed-read of Grey's Anatomy. Between infrequent page-turns, I looked over the cover to glare at him. His eyes were always so focused on the lens, and his brow furrowed in a manner not too dissimilar to my own.

After a while, I dozed off, and when I awoke alone, I immediately deduced that Mother must have taken Sherlock to bed (unless Father had started using the same abhorrent perfume). The microscope lay on the floor. Suddenly possessed by whatever negative emotion a child psychologist would pin on me if he knew what I was about to do, I slowly got out of bed, picked up the microscope, and broke it in half. Then I climbed back into bed and slept more soundly than I had the night before. Sigmund chittered from what I assumed was relief.


End file.
